


Sanguine

by roquentine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, M/M, Murder Husbands, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 16:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11294589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: Will, Hannibal, a dead priest. Things change.





	Sanguine

The air is thick. Close. An invisible but noticeable weight to it.

It’s not only the weather, at the moment, although that is certainly part of it. Rome is sweltering itself through another devastatingly humid summer, as it has done for thousands of years, without regard to the comfort or sanity of the people within its walls, living their lives.

(Or dying their deaths, as sometimes happens.)

No, it is not only the weather, in this particular room, on this particular evening.

There’s also the heavy singular heat emanating from the cadaver on the chaise. Waves are rising from his exposed viscera, from the blood that only minutes ago sustained his life. Some of that blood is now covering the upholstery. Some of it covers the two people still alive in the room, and some is dripping slowly from the knives those two people are holding. Some of it is presumably soaking the ripped black cloth that once enveloped the priest’s body, but that’s harder to discern. The rest is draining to the floor, pooling aimlessly, as it is now without purpose.

The smell of copper and iron only adds to the weight of the air.

Will is sprawled back in the armchair, catching his breath. It’s hard work, pulling the oxygen from every inhale. His legs are splayed out in front of him, and his arms hang limply over the sides of the chair. He’s momentarily forgotten that he’s still holding a knife.

He looks at Hannibal. Not staring, not really watching. He’s just… looking, his gaze simply resting on this fixed point in front of him.

He realizes, after a time, that Hannibal is covered in blood. Obviously he is, they both are, but Will doesn’t consciously register it until minutes have passed. The splatters and smears of crimson on Hannibal’s face and neck, soaked through his shirt and splashed down one leg, none of it is a remarkable feature of Hannibal’s appearance, not to Will’s eye.

The fact that it isn’t remarkable is not remarkable, either. Not anymore.

Will looks, and breathes, and feels his heart pumping his own blood, for the moment still safely moving through his intact body, and without warning, he is changed. Not in a jolt, not a rush or a crest of a wave, but instantaneously. A fundamental shift in his existence. The ruins of his previous life have disappeared, just then, just in that moment. The choices and circumstances that drew him inexorably to the man standing ten feet before him, the man looking back at him, also gasping, also holding a knife, have been rendered inconsequential, nonexistent.

Somewhere in the building, a clock strikes twelve, marking his own rebirth, still and otherwise silent, on this night, in this heat, covered in sweat and the blood of this dead priest.

The heat, the blood, Hannibal.

Individually, they are oppressive. Collectively, they are undeniable and inviolable. They draw Will to his new life like a magnet, an irresistible force, redefining the boundaries of his agency.

Will takes in a final deep breath, and with a slow exhale, his respirations have normalized, though the air is still heavy. He lets his knife clatter to the floor.

In turn, Hannibal tosses his knife aside, his eyes never straying from Will’s semi-prone form.

They look at each other.

Will pushes up and slides forward, dropping out of the chair onto his knees. He shuffles forward once, then twice, then Hannibal moves to close the distance, and reaches down to frame Will's cheek.

Will lifts his hands to Hannibal’s belt.

“No,” Hannibal says, calmly, matter of fact. Will pauses, his fingertips on Hannibal’s buckle.

“This isn’t what you want?” Will asks, looking up to meet Hannibal’s hooded eyes. He lets his hands press flat against Hannibal’s body, against the hardness and heat underneath the fabric.

“You think I want you to worship me, now?” Hannibal slides his hands to Will’s shoulders and grips them, pulling Will to his feet. “Not at all,” he whispers, a smile ghosting his face as he drags his hands to Will’s jaw and covers his mouth with his own, forcing it open, licking inside, the taste of the priest’s blood passing between them, unavoidable, incidental.

Then it’s Hannibal who falls to his knees in front of Will, Hannibal who works Will’s jeans down his body, Hannibal who pulls Will into his mouth and groans only when he feels Will’s hand, sticky with drying blood, push his hair back from his forehead and form a loose fist, just for a moment.

Will gladly gives himself over to it. He feels like he deserves to be able to do at least that.

He finishes suddenly, rather more quickly than usual, and watches as Hannibal swallows him down, licks him clean. Will’s brows knit together as Hannibal closes his eyes and presses an unexpected and oddly affectionate kiss to Will’s stomach. Hannibal breathes in his skin for a long moment, then comes back to himself and efficiently returns Will to a fully clothed state. He rises to his feet.

Without thinking too much about it, Will slips a hand to the back of Hannibal’s neck and initiates his own kiss this time, deep and forceful. Hannibal is receptive, but passive, meeting Will’s demands without making any of his own, this time.

Will tastes himself first, and then the priest again, and so he keeps at it, pushing in, pulling back, pushing back in, until he tastes only Hannibal, and at last he slows, and savors it.

They’re both breathing heavily once again when they finally separate, and Hannibal slides a hand alongside Will’s head. “It’s time to go,” he says quietly, and Will nods. They’ve indulged themselves long enough.

But they still pause, for one final look. At their work, their mark, their gruesome tableau. Jointly created, profanely christened, on the night they will always remember as their second beginning.

They look and breathe it in, one last deep inhale, a molecular imprint, to make it a permanent part of themselves. Then they look at each other, and turn toward the exit, and disappear into the midnight hour.

**Author's Note:**

> Word-nerdery: I sort of love that "sanguine" means both optimistic and bloodthirsty. It's a perfect Hannibal word.
> 
> I am [roquentine19](http://roquentine19.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, though that is still _mostly_ Sherlock. This is my first Hannibal ficlet.


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